


The Lone Wolf

by DerekHaleGirl97



Series: Sterek One-Shots [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is Alone, Werewolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerekHaleGirl97/pseuds/DerekHaleGirl97
Summary: Stiles lives an isolated life. He works from dawn to dusk. And only has himself to keep company.When he finds a mysterious man injured in the middle of the woods, his whole world will turn upside down.





	

The sun barely peeked over the dark horizon, filling the sky with a dark orange glow as it slowly rose over the tree tops. Stiles could feel the cold seep into his small bedroom as he mindlessly watched through the small narrow window that barely gave his room enough light. It was the beginning of another long day, and Stiles just wanted a moment to think to himself before he moved to start his day. He thought over his plans, what he needed to do while he did his daily chores. His mind calculates the amount of wheat he will collect, how much he will keep and how much he will sell in the market. What of the carrots and the potatoes? He might keep half of each, then split the other half for the cattle, then sell the rest.

            He rose from his bed, the old wood creaked in protest, and he dressed in slacks and a dark top. It was almost time for him to bring out his old cloak, the one lined with wool and a hidden pocket for his silver for when he travels to the market, but it’s too soon to think about winter yet. He hasn’t gathered his crops yet, and the very thought of having to pull all those plants from the ground made his back ache. He once picked too many crops that his back stayed bent the entire season, and the chilling cold of winter made it that much worse for him to heal. It was the worst year of his young life, maybe his loneliest.

            Stiles climbed the old stairs to the first floor of his cottage, they too creaked under his weight, but he ignores them in favor of the cauldron, filled with fresh well water he collected the other day. He cups some in his hands, splashing it over his face to wash away the sleep before running it through his long thick hair, then over the scruff that was growing on his face. He wonders what people will say, how much he has grown to look much like his father, and he hopes they won’t say anything about the man who abandoned him and his mother after his birth. Maybe they won’t even recognize him, just another farmer from another village trying to sell his crops.

            After one last swipe of his face, Stiles collects some food to take with him, stale bread and day old meat from Betty. He climbs down one more level of the house, the last level, the basement, and collects what he would need for the day. He goes back to the first level then passes the threshold of his home. The cottage was larger than most, a single story with an attic and basement, made of dark oak (Darach, his mother corrects him in his head) and cobblestone. It sits in a middle of a field filled with sunflowers and other kinds of flowers his mother loved so much. Behind the cottage, there is a small farm made up of wheat, carrots, and potatoes. All grown and raised by him, the sun, and water.

            The farm itself was in the middle of a forest the village he came from called the Dark Forest. Many of the villagers feared of ever entering the forest, but not his mother. She had sought and found refuge in the Dark Forest when she ran away from the village with an infant Stiles. This place is where she built the very home he lives in, where she raised him and a farm to bring money and food in, and the place where she passed away during the night of the full moon. It’s been ten years, Stiles thinks since she died and left him to feed himself. He must have been eight then, or nine? But so far he managed to keep the farm going and has been successful.

            Stiles recalls the nights his mother would tuck into bed, singing songs of a life he would never know, and dreamed of places he’s never been. His whole life, Stiles had always remained in one place, only rarely venturing out to sell crops with his mother, now by himself. The Dark Forest was his home, and he much rather keeps the beauty of it to himself. His mother had taught him to appreciate the beauty of nature, to absorb the essence of the woods, to listen to its soft lullabies. The serenity and peace of it all. He would never dream of anything more than this place, his home of eighteen years.

            Once he gathered some loafs of bread, his hacking knife, and his crossbow, he made out into the isolated world. Like every day, the woods were quiet and the only sounds that would be heard were the bird’s morning song, the soft sigh of the stream that ran passed his home, and the welcoming moo from Rose. Stiles breathed in the fresh pine air, feeling the cooling breeze of fall brush against his skin, leaving goosebumps along his dotted arms. He strode over to the nearby shed and yanked open the flimsy door to retrieve his tools. Stiles slipped on his leather gloves and made his way out back to the garden his mother planted ages ago. It was a beautiful place in Stiles’ mind, a place where he can just sit for hours as he gathered the crops, thinking about the world around him. The garden was surrounded by oak fences, placed there by Stiles himself as a way to keep out the critters from stealing his produce, the roses his mother loved so much were planted to the right, the wheat, potatoes, and carrots were planted to the left, and there was this willow tree that dominated the whole garden. Shrouding it in a hue of jade green light, surrounded by wildflowers that provided the perfect resting place for his mother. At the base of the willow, there was a cross placed against the bark with a simple rose planted there in memory.

            Stiles sighed at his work of art, grateful that it belonged to him and him only, meant for only his eyes to see and cherish. He remembers fondly of how as a child he would run around the small garden like it was the Garden of Eden, of how he would help his mother plant and grow some of the crops, and how they would sit under the willow tree during the summers when the sun was warm against his skin. Those were the kind of days he missed, spending time with his mother. She was the only company he had as he grew up (aside from Rose, of course) and after the day she passed away, the farm became such a lonely place. Stiles honestly doesn’t mind the peace, but he misses having someone to talk to, whether it be her telling a story from her youth or about him sharing his adventures to the nearby village. He missed the company, but he wasn’t the kind to socialize.

He’s learned from personal experiences that the people outside his world were cruel and unkind. The common folk only cared about themselves, were greedy, and most of all selfish. Stiles’ own father was the worst of them all, having left his mother before his birth, leaving her a wet-lock mother and him a bastard son. He was grateful to have never known the man since he had left for another village far away to never return again; and there had been rumors that his father found himself another wife and child, a son who was strong and left for war ages ago. Stiles could care less, his only focus was to raise the farm and be there for his mother until her passing. He enjoyed his lonely isolation, and would never change it for anything else.

Stiles spent the good half of the morning gathering the wheat, then storing them in the chest by the shed so he could sort them later and use them to make more bread. The carrots took up the rest of the morning, barely leaving him enough time to take a break before continuing on with the potatoes. Those were usually the harder ones to gather, but he managed to get to all of them well into the evening. By then, the sun was setting and Stiles had to make supper for himself before retiring to bed for another long day tomorrow.

Stiles was barely going to head back inside before he washed up until he heard what sounded like a howl in the distance. He paused and looked cautiously over the darkening horizon as the howl echoed through the trees. It vibrated into his chest and he had a sudden curiosity for the low and sad sound it made, sending him the feeling of concern. It was strange and yet fascinating as the sound began to die off. Stiles had the sudden urge to venture out into the dark woods, a dangerous feat in itself because these woods were known to harbor dark and dangerous things. His mother told him tales of creatures with glowing eyes that hunt down those who wonder into the forest at night, who are foolish enough to believe they can overcome the darkness.

Stiles stuffed the last of the potatoes in the sack inside the shed, making sure to close it properly before slinging the crossbow he kept on his back and into his hands. He walks to the edge of the farm, hesitant to enter the dark woods. The night had made the fall air much colder, almost like winter, with bitter ice winds sticking pins into his skin. Earlier, he had shrugged on the cape, which was black as night that would keep him out of sight if needed. Stiles sucked in a deep breath and whispered a prayer his mother would utter as she tucked him into bed, also having him say it as well before he drifted off to sleep.

“Matka Księżyc, chroń mine od ciemności i utrzymać serce silne.” Stiles mutters before he strides into the woods, his hands setting up the crossbow in case something decided to pop out and ambush him. He rushed through the forest, making sure he did not trip over the unearthed roots of the dark oak trees, towards where he had heard the howl. Stiles approached a lagoon, hidden behind the thickest brush; he stood in awe at the sight of the full moon rising over the eastern horizon, so full and bright with a yellow glow that mesmerized him. The moon reflected over the waters of the lagoon, shining brightly in the water as much as it did in the sky. Stiles never noticed how beautiful the moon looked, especially out in the late evening and this close. He’s always seen it through the small window of his bedroom before he falls asleep, it was always bright, but he’s never seen it this close and out in the open.

The peace of the moon was suddenly shattered when he heard a harsh groan behind him, causing him to turn and aim his arrow at the darkness. He waits for any movement, anything to come out at him, but like it was before, the woods were still. Then, something moved in the brush by the trees surrounding the lagoon, causing Stiles to tense. With the crossbow ready in his hands, Stiles trekked forward, pushing past the weeds and bushes to find a sight he has never encountered before. A man Stiles has never seen before was laid against a fallen tree, curled into himself as he groaned in pain and held a hand tightly against what looked like an arrow piercing into his side. Stiles gawked at him in surprise, wondering what he was doing out in the middle of the woods with a wound that looked like it would kill him.

He slowly makes his way over to the man, being cautious in case the man decided to lash out. Instead, the man was panting, face contorted in pain and his skin was sickly pale. When Stiles came to his side, the man opened his eyes to look at him and Stiles gasped in shock. The man had strong features, chiseled jawline, olive skin, and the brightest green eyes Stiles has ever seen. Everyone in the village looked the same, with dark eyes and light hair, Stiles stuck out like a sore thumb among the people his mother used to live with. But this man, this man looked exotic to him. With dark raven hair and colorful eyes, Stiles couldn’t help but stare in awe. At least until the man began to speak.

“Má tá tú ag dul a mharú dom, a dhéanamh ansin é cheana féin.” The man breathed and Stiles stared at him in confusion. This is a language he has never heard before, nothing from whatever his mother taught him.

“I do not understand,” Stiles says to him, he places down his crossbow and raises his hands in an offering of peace. “Please, let me help you.”

“Ní gá dom do chabhair, Hunter.” The man says, groaning once again and leans his head against the bark of the tree. He looked like he was going to pass out soon, and Stiles needed to get him back to his home before something worse comes their way.

“You’re hurt. Let me help you before you bleed to death.” Stiles tells him, but it didn’t look the man was paying attention to him anymore. The man had this distant look on his face like he wasn’t there anymore, but he still looked at Stiles with a sense of wonder in his eyes.

“Mo ghealach…” The man breathes before his eyes close and slumps against the tree. Stiles would have been worried, had it not been for the shallow breathing the man made and watching his bare chest expanding. In fact, Stiles barely noticed that the man had no clothing whatsoever, which confused him and fueled his curiosity of the man’s history.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Stiles reached forward and began to attend to the wound the man had on his side. He carefully pulled the arrow from it, then placed his own hand over the heated skin to help stop the bleeding. Stiles didn’t have the necessary items needed to tend to the man’s wounds, and he knew he would have to move the man to his home so he can be out of the cold. Without much hesitation, Stiles pulls the coat off his shoulders and tucked it around the man before moving to lift him off the ground. It wasn’t an easy task, the man must have weighed more than Rose in muscle, even with Stiles’ years of doing the most heavy-lifting for his mother, it was no use to carry this man. Still, Stiles managed to sling the man’s arm over his shoulder and carried him back to his home.

***

            Stiles was attending to the pot that sat over the flames, one hand stirring the warming broth with a wooden spoon while the other occasionally threw in some spices and ingredients in the pot. He can hear the floor above him creak and groan with a new weight being added. He knew that the man was now awake and he would have to come down eventually if he wanted something to eat. The stairs creaked behind him, causing Stiles turn to see the man cautiously stepping down the stairs. He was dressed in the clothes Stiles provided for him, an old shirt that always fit him too big and his worn out slacks he hasn’t worn since they were also too big for him. Stiles stared at the man for a moment before turning back to the pot.

            "You must be hungry, please have a seat, it's not quite finished yet," Stiles tells him, tossing some of the diced carrots he picked the other day. He can hear the man pull up one of the chairs he had by the small table that used to belong to his mother, and took a seat behind him.

            “How long had I been asleep?” The man asked, he spoke in English but his had a thick accent that wrapped around the tone of his voice. Stiles was surprised that he actually knew English, but did not voice it.

            "Only a day," Stiles replies, tossing the last ingredients in before sealing the pot with an iron lid. He turns away from the pot to look at the man, taking note of how he didn't look as ill as he had before. He still looked weak, but he must have already been healing from the wound. "You must have gotten your wound infected because I found some traces of wolfsbane," Stiles informs him.

            “You’re a healer?” The man asked but Stiles shook his head.

            “My mother, she used to deal with all the herbs and such before she died. I just learned a few things from her,” Stiles says before grabbing a cup of warm water he had by the pot. “Here,” He adds some herbs in it, like how he remembers his mother doing so, and hands it to the man. “This should help clear the poisons,”

            “Go raibh maith agat,” The man says before taking the cup and drinking the water in one gulp. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of Stiles’ shirt and placed the cup on the small table near him. “What is your name?”

            “Stiles,” Stiles answers, turning to check on the stew in the pot. “Yours?”

            “Derek,” The man replies and Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him.

            “What brought you out into the middle of the Darach forest?” Stiles couldn’t help but ask as he began to set the table with the cutlery he had.

            “I was just passing through to get to the nearby village,” Derek answers, watching as Stiles uses a rag to grab the handles of the pot and place it on the small wooden table. He also grabbed a wooden spoon to begin pouring the stew he made into the bowls placed on the table. “It seemed easier to go that way, but I can see why it’s called the dark forest.”

            “Only the fools travel through here,” Was Stiles’ response as he placed the pot back over the dying flames.

            Derek grabs his bowl, stirring it slightly as he observed the contents in the stew. “And what are you? Surely it’s not as safe for a travel route as it is for making a home here in the heart of it all.”

            “I prefer isolation,” Stiles replies and takes a hold of his bowl. “This is the place where my Mother settled, and I’d rather not be anywhere else.”

            “And where is she?” Derek asked, taking a cautious taste of the stew. Stiles paused midway eating, turning to look at him before lowering his spoon and giving him a tired look.

            “Buried under the willow outside,” Stiles cocks his head to the side to indicate the direction. “Had been there for a good decade,”

            “My apologies,” Derek offers but Stiles just scoffs into his bowl and takes a sip off his spoon.

 "Doesn't hurt much, not in a while at least," Stiles says around the cut carrots and potatoes. "Are you a traveler?"

            “Not really,” Derek answers, keeping his eyes on the bowl in front of him. “My group and I were just passing through to the south. We were looking for someone who we were told had magical healing abilities,”

            “By who exactly are you look looking for?” Stiles asked, eyes darting to Derek.

            “A woman by the name of Claudia Stilinski,” Derek answers again, looking up at Stiles. “Have you heard of her?”

            “She was my mother,” Stiles answers and Derek visibly deflates. “It was influenza that got to her, didn't last long when it hit."

            Derek looked angry, his thick brows knitted together in a frown, his lips made a thin line and his soft green eyes hardened into emeralds. “So my pack and I traveled all this way for nothing?”

            “Your pack?” Stiles frowns, wondering if it was a term he used for his group.

            “Nothing,” Derek repeats, standing up from his seat. It looked like he was about to leave, but then he looks at Stiles for a moment. “Do you perhaps know as much as your mother?”

            Stiles shakes his head, mindlessly stirring the half eaten soup in his bowl. “My mother barely taught me anything about her craft. If she had wanted to, then it would have been too late because of her illness. I only know what I remember watching her do.”

            Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair, the distress plain on his face. “What am I to tell the others? Traveling all this way for a healer that no longer lives.”

            “Why do you need a healer?” Stiles asked, frowning at Derek’s discomfort.

 "My mother," Derek answers, rubbing his large hand over his face. "She too is ill but was poisoned by our enemy clan. She had sent me and a few of the others to find your mother in hopes for a cure. To come back and tell her that her only hope for survival has been dead for a decade… it would be devastating."

            “Poisoned with what?” Stiles asks curiously.

            “Aconitum Noveboracense,” Derek answers, turning to Stiles with a small glint of hope in his eyes. “It’s a rare form of-,”

            “Wolfsbane,” Stiles finishes, staring at Derek in realization. “I think I may have that plant in my mother’s garden. She always raised such strange plants, but I’m sure they were for her natural remedies.”

 Stiles gets up without waiting for Derek to answer, rushing out of the house and into his mother's garden. He makes quick pace in gathering the flower, taking caution as he avoids touching the leaves. Stiles remembers his mother always telling him to be wary of the plant for it can be poisonous to him as well, especially for someone who lacks the skills needed. When he uproots the plant and turns to take it inside, he sees that Derek has followed him outside, but moves around him as if he were in a hurry. Back inside the cottage, he begins to look through his mother’s old things, the ones he could never bring himself to burn despite his mother’s wishes.

 He dug through her old chest to find a couple of her leather-bound books, some looking like they could fall apart if he dared move them, but he paid no mind to them. He was looking for her journal, the one he remembers her writing in after she does some remedy or is taking stock of her herbs. It was also leather bound with an insignia on it, with wrinkled pages that have yellowed from time. He remembers the distinct scent of lavender and vanilla that she had placed between the pages, so when he finally found it, he knew it was the right one.

            Derek had returned inside, carefully watching as Stiles was skimming through the journal, hopefully trying to find the right recipe. Stiles skimmed and skimmed until he found the remedy that would cure the Wolfsbane with using the same one that was used. He begins pulling some ingredients together, thankfully some simple ones he could easily find inside his home, but the key ingredient was the Wolfsbane he collected. Following the instructions were written, he chops the plant into pieces, then brushes them into an empty clean pot, grabs a stick from the fire from the pit he used to make the stew, and sets the plant on fire.

 Derek watches curiously as Stiles works, seeing the smoke from the pot turn an ashy blue before the other ingredients were mixed in. It seemed so simple, if he could, he would possibly be able to do it himself, but the concentrated look on Stiles' face says otherwise. Soon enough, Stiles appeared to be finished with the concoction, staring into the pot in wonder before he grabs a leather pouch from his hunting gear and stuffs the power-like substance into it. He then hands it to Derek, suddenly feeling a sense of nervousness overcome him and doubt begin to leak into his mind. 

 "I think this should help," Stiles says cautiously, looking between the pouch and Derek. "It's from my mother's journal, so it should be the cure for the poisoning,"

            “At this point, anything will help,” Derek says honestly, looking up to meet Adam’s eyes. “Thank you… you have no idea how much hope you’ve given me,”

            “It’s the very least I can do,” Stiles shrugs his shoulders, feeling them sag a little with an unfamiliar weight. “I’m nothing more than a reclusive madman,”

            “Is that what the others in the village say to you?” Derek asked, curiously raising an eyebrow.

            “It’s what they say to my back,” Stiles says bitterly, turning away to clear the empty table of the mess he made.

            “And you still continue to live within the boundaries of them?”

            Stiles turns to look at Derek, uncertainty clear in his amber colored eyes. “It’s not like I have much choice. I am as far as I could manage from them. This has been my home for many years, it’s all I’ve ever known.”

            “So you’ve never traveled farther than your village?”

            “And I never plan to,” Stiles says as he gathers his cutlery and tosses them into the cauldron to clean. “My home in the forest is enough for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

            “Would I be able to convince you otherwise?”

            “No,” Stiles replies honestly, turning to look Derek in the eye. “I’m happy here, and I want to remain here for as long as I shall have it.”

            Derek doesn’t say anymore, his lips form a hard line and he takes the seat he had before Stiles made the cure. Nothing more was said between the two, and Stiles goes about cleaning the small cottage to how he had it. It became a quiet and uneventful evening. Something Stiles was used to, but for some reason, the atmosphere had changed. It felt foreboding, and Stiles can't help how tense he feels, how the air became thick and he couldn't think straight. Just as he was about to turn down for the night, Stiles heard something outside his home.

            The sound was of heavy footsteps pounding the earth, almost shaking the ground they land on. Stiles looked out the small window to see men, all of them wearing dark cloaks to hide them against the dark night, and they carried torches with them to illuminate their faces. He recognizes them as some of the villagers he's met at the market. Stiles frowns, wondering what they were doing here, then makes his way to the front door, meeting them half way into his yard. The men stop him and Stiles can see the pikes, pitchforks, and some other weapons they managed to round up before marching over here.

            “What are you doing on my land?” Stiles asks, voice calm and strong. He may be considered a child in their eyes, but he is more of a man than they could ever be. He lives in the most dangerous part of the country, no one dares step foot here, let alone survive a whole decade without a father to teach him the things he knows.

            “We heard from the Argents that you are harboring a Loup-garou,” The leader of the mob, Haine, says.

Stiles looks at him in confusion, "What do you mean? I don't have a loup-garou, only a man who had been injured."

            “That is the loup garou,” Haine says, his tone taking on a dark tone as he stares Stiles down. “The Argents are paying in gold for his head, and I intend to take my share.”

            Stiles plants his feet against the ground, squaring his shoulders and staring at Haine dead in the eye. “You will not shed a single blood on this land for as long as I am still breathing. This forest is my home, and I will not have you bloody it no matter what the Argents say are true.”

            “Then you are very much like your wretched mother,” Haine scoffs and the other men laugh in mockery. “She used to think that all creatures, whether they’re from the devil or not, are good hearted. Your mother was wrong to think such blasphemy, and now she’s got you roped in her thinking as well. Once a bastard son, always a bastard son.”

 Stiles’ hands clasped into fists, glaring harshly at Haine. “Leave. Leave now, and never come back, all of you!”

            Before anything could happen, something jumps in front of Stiles, getting in between him and the mob. Stiles is suddenly pushed back to the ground, making him land in the hard, frozen dirt. Everything seems to happen in a blur because the moment Stiles looks back up, he sees that Derek looks anything but human. With glowing yellow eyes, sharp teeth that look like fangs, and screams at the men in what sounds like a mountain lion roar. The men look at him in fear, practically frozen in their place, all but Haine who smiles wickedly at Derek.

            “I knew it, Stilinski was hiding a loup-garou, a werewolf," Haine snared, eyes gleaming with intent before turning to the other men. "Argent is going to have a ball once we bring this beast back. Get him!"

 Derek roars again, not wasting any time fending off the men. Left and right, Derek only tosses them out of the way before gunfire can be heard. As quick as it had happened, soon Stiles found himself being lifted by the arm and dragged away into the dense darkness of the forest. He tries to free himself from Derek's grasp, but before he would even tug at his arm, he sees a bright orange light illuminating the dark forest. Stiles looks back to see that Haine has set his home on fire, the small cottage was up in flames, burning away everything that Stiles once held dear.

            Stiles watches in horror as the flames burn the dark oak of the house, he can hear the men’s shout of victory as well as the gunfire that followed. He could do nothing but let Derek drag him away as his only sanctuary was burned to the ground. Everything he knows, now gone in smoke and ash.

 

            Stiles made no move to indicate that he heard him, “My home is gone…” he says breathlessly. “The cottage, the willow, everything is gone…”

            “They would have killed you if you had stayed,” Derek grunts out, standing up to cross his arms over his chest.

            “I would have been fine if you hadn’t come along!” Stiles suddenly animates, quickly getting into Derek’s face with eyes blazing with hate and anger. “All I had to worry about was me, and me alone, then you came along and had to ruin everything!”

            “It was your fault for helping me!” Derek counters back, “then maybe you would still be wallowing in your precious isolation and pity!”

 "Why did you come here, then? For someone who's been dead for a decade? Someone who died when I was only eight years old and left me to fend for myself and learn things that a boy shouldn't have to know by then! Why?" Stiles shouts, breathing heavily and glaring at Derek.

            “I was telling the truth about my mother, about her illness,” Derek glares back, his tone steady and calm but also threatening. “Your mother was the only one who can help us and my mother had not known yours was dead.”

            “Well, now you have what you came here for,” Stiles points to the pouch Derek had strapped to his side. “Why don’t you just take it and leave?”

            “And what are you going to do?” Derek asked, raising a brow at him. “Go back to them? They’ll kill you if you go back. They burned your home for a reason.”

            “What else am I supposed to do then? I have no one left, no uncles or aunts, or friends to help me! I’m on my own, and I have nothing left anymore! The village is the only place I can think of going.” Stiles rushes out, letting his anger pass into misery. To him, it seemed all hope was lost, and he had no other place to go to. The cottage was his home, the only thing he knows.

 "Then come with me," Derek offers, seeing Stiles become visibly upset. "My homeland is a far journey, but there are people there like you and me who live in peace."

            “But my home…” Stiles’ voice weavers, showing his vulnerability.

            “There is nothing left for you here,” Derek says sternly and Stiles couldn’t help but think he’s right. “Think of it as a new start, a new beginning.”

            Stiles ponders for a moment, realizing that he really doesn’t have any other choice. He knew Haine and the others were going to have him lynched for harboring Derek, and there was no more home to return to. He is sure his gardens, his farm, his childhood, have all been burned down along with the cottage. Derek was right, there was nothing here for him anymore. Nothing but death and destruction, and what Derek was offering was much safer, much better than anything Stiles could think of. With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, Stiles turns back to Derek.

 "Fine, let's go," Stiles says, his voice filled with determination. 

            Derek only nods, then leads him through the forest. Stiles willingly follows, keeping his eyes forward and never looking back.

 


End file.
